Stan awoke in a haze and he realised that he was lying on the cold stone floor of the mine. What? How did I get here? he wondered for a moment before remembering the events that led him to his current position on the ground. His head hurt from Hatchet's punch and he recalled the events leading up to it with embarrassment.

"Eh," the sound came out somewhere between a groan and a yawn as Stan pushed himself up into a sitting position. He looked around and realised that he was still trapped in the dead-end tunnel, blocked on one side by a rock wall and on the other by the debris from the cave-in. His flashlight had been turned up so that it acted as a small lantern in the small enclosed space. Hatchet was sitting against the rough rocky wall opposite Stan and frowned to acknowledge him. "Uh," Stan began, clearing his throat. What do I say? he wondered, his cheeks heating up from the embarrassment of the whole situation. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Hatchet scowled across the small space, "better than you anyways."

"Huh?" Stan looked down to see that his back and legs were sliced up from the falling debris. The sight of his own blood outside his body made him feel queasy and he swallowed. It wasn't that he was unused to seeing his own blood, he had boxed for years after all, it was just that after his encounter with Mister Flowers the sight seemed far more gruesome than it usually did. "Oh," Stan said after collecting himself for a moment, "I guess you're right."

"You okay?' Hatchet asked, her voice still cold but her face softened just a fraction.

"I've seen worse," Stan tried his best at a cocky smile but he felt nauseous from the blood loss and instead he looked like he would vomit. He dug into his backpack and pulled out a small first aid kit. Always prepared, he told himself as he opening it and withdrew some gauze and adhesive strips. In his line of work injuries were often unavoidable after all. "I'll be okay."

"Good," Hatchet said, standing up. "Then you can help me find a way out of here. We're trapped as far as I can tell." Hatchet walked across the small space to the wall of debris, "Unless you wanna try pulling this apart and even then I can guarantee it'll just bury us in even more."

"Right," Stan winced as he wrapped a gauze roll around his exposed ankle before tearing it across and tapping it down. "We'll figure out something."

"Oh yeah?" Hatchet's voice rose, "and how do you figure that? That thing is still out there, waiting for us. Hell, maybe it's trying to find its way inside right now."

"Why did it bury us?"

"What?"

"If it just wanted to kill and eat us," Stan grimaced as he said the words aloud, "then why did it bury us away from it. Why didn't it just come right at us?" Hatchet paused, standing in place, before drawing her gun and examining it. She looked at Stan and then at the gun. Stan nodded, "I think it's afraid of us. It wanted to kill us with the cave in so it wouldn't have to go toe-to-toe with us."

"Huh," Hatchet smiled weakly, holstering the pistol once again, "I guess that makes sense."

"So all we need to do is figure out a way out of here," Stan confirmed, pausing to hike up his pant leg to wrap some bandage around his diced calf. The silence was deafening. Neither of them spoke and so Stan continued patching himself up while Hatchet continued pacing back and forth. Should I apologize? he wondered. The thought made him feel awkward and angry and in the end he decided not to bring it up at all. It's not like I could choose where I was going to fall, she should have gotten outta the damned way! Stan frowned, looking up at Hatchet. If she got out of the way, my head would be split open on those rocks. Stan's frown deepened as he realised what he had to do.

"Uh," he cleared his throat as Hatchet stopped her pacing to face him again, "I just wanted to say thanks."

"What?"

"Thanks for breaking my fall," Stan realised how it sounded as soon as it was out of his mouth.

"Oh yeah? Is that some kinda crack?" she took a step towards him menacingly before Stan threw his hands up in surrender.

"No, no!" Stan stammered out, "I mean it. If you weren't there to catch me I woulda busted my skull on the wall over there. Seriously, thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his other hand still in the air above him.

"Huh," Hatchet considered his words as she took a step closer and sat down in front of him. "In that case," she said, "don't mention it. Seriously. Keep your trap shut and forget the whole thing." Hatchet's voice cracked as she spoke, obviously uncomfortable.

"You got it," Stan nodded and they shared a look of mutual understand before Stan went back to bandaging himself once more. "Hatchet," his cheeks colored, "could you...uh…" he winced as he tried to take his blood-stained and tattered jacket off his back, "could you help me with this?"

"Whatever," Hatchet stood up despite her words, "turn around." Stan did as he was told as he tried to work his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket without moving around too much. Every movement caused the cuts and scrapes all along his back to flair up with pain. "Give me your arm," Stan complied and no sooner did he feel Hatchet's strong, small hands grab hold of his sleeve than she yanked the sleeve off.

"Gah!" Stan shouted involuntarily, "watch it!"

"Don't be a baby," Hatchet said, pushing Stan roughly on the shoulder so he turned while she held the jacket sleeve. The jacket slipped off Stan's back and Hatchet dropped it on the floor. "Yikes," Hatchet said, her voice low and uneven.

"What?" Stan's voice was harsh with concern.

"Your back doesn't look so good," Hatchet confessed, fidgeting with discomfort. The white dress shirt Stan wore beneath his sport jacket was dyed deep red with Stan's blood. The sight didn't bother Hatchet, she did kill people for a living after all, but she found Stan's state of undress very unnerving.

"I figured as much," Stan grumbled self-consciously, "I can feel it." He shrugged his shoulders for emphasis but the gesture sent ripples of pain down his back and he winced aloud.

"Take off your shirt," Hatchet told him forcefully.

"What?"

"You need to patch yourself up," Hatchet said angrily, "don't make me tell you again."

"I ain't getting undressed in front of you," Stan said bluntly.

"You'd rather bleed to death? Huh?" Hatchet took a step back. "Fine," she spat, "when you die I can leave your body here as a distraction!" Stan shuddered and Hatchet frowned.

"Okay," Stan broke the silence.

"Okay," Hatchet turned around to give what privacy she could in the cramped quarters.

Stan tried to work the shirt off his back but the same problem that had prevented him from taking off his jacket stood in his way once again. Stan grunted from the pain as he tried once more to shift his shoulder and roll it out of the tight dress shirt sleeve. By now he was breathing heavily.

"I need help," Stan said begrudgingly. Hatchet said nothing in response as she turned around and took a step closer to Stan's blood soaked back. She bent down to take a small pair of scissors from the first aid kit Stan had left out of his backpack.

"Stay still," Hatchet said as she reached out an unsteady hand to take a hold of his shirt. She quickly and roughly cut the shirt off Stan's back and he peeled it over his arms so that he was naked from the waist up. Hatchet stepped back immediately, turning her back again.

"Thanks," Stan's voice came out shaky and hoarse. Hatchet said nothing. Stan grabbed the gauze and taped one end of the roll to his hip before trying to wind the roll around his back. He grunted loudly as the pain flared up once again. "Hatchet," Stan began but she cut him off.

"Hand it over," she said as she came to stand behind the wounded conman. He held out the roll and she took it so their hands didn't touch. Then she began wrapping across his back, each time handing to him so he could wrap it around his front. Neither said anything as they worked and by the time the roll was depleted and Stan's back was patched up they were both sweating profusely. Stan taped the other end of the gauze to his shoulder, securing it, as Hatchet backed off once again.

"You need a shirt," she told him, clearing her throat loudly.

"Well I don't have an extra in my bag," he said too loudly, turning around to face Hatchet.

"Right," Hatchet looked away and Stan did the same.

"Thanks," Stan said before he could change his mind. "For everything."

"Yeah," Hatchet let out a long breath, "don't mention it."

"Now how do we get out of here?" Stan wondered.

To be continued…

Author's Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the awkwardness of that chapter! :D it was a blast to write. What can I say, I'm a sucker for that kind of stuff and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

As always, reviews are super appreciated! I never know what works and what doesn't until you tell me and I can't improve as a writer without it. Speaking of which…

To Qatzol: Thanks so much! I'm glad you like it so far. I am going to keep updating twice a week until the story is done so don't worry about that :) I hope this chapter delivered on the Stan/Hatchet, look forward to more of it in the rest of the story ;)